


A More Conventional Life

by x_art



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 11:51:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_art/pseuds/x_art
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because children changed everything. They always had and they always would.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A More Conventional Life

_“You ever crave a more conventional life, Finch?”_

_“If by conventional, you mean a life without the numbers? The thought has crossed my mind.”_

***

 

 

He was prepared for the recoil but hadn’t counted on the leftover ice or the wound in his shoulder. When the rifle bucked, he slipped and fell on his ass, hitting the car in the process.

He caught his breath, then took a quick look around the bumper and damn, he’d missed—Davis was still up. Only now he had the grenade launcher and was pointing it straight at him.

Davis was an excellent shot—there was no way he’d miss. John fell back and using the car for cover, he lunged for the ditch that bordered the forest road.

He almost made it.

Davis fired and the car exploded, hurtling shrapnel and debris, the concussive wave hitting John with the force of a body slam. He flew into the ditch, over dead bushes and rocks, his arms spread like an angel.

He lay there on the frozen dirt, stunned for what seemed like a lifetime, then rolled to his feet. His rifle had landed a foot away; he picked it up and moved south, bent low. Thirty feet down, he stopped and crawled up the slope, using the brush for cover.

He saw nothing at first, just a cloud of smoke and flame. And then, to the east, sidling through the smoke like a ghost, came Davis. He still had the launcher, but there was something wrong with his gait. His slow creep wasn’t due to caution but pain—the beautiful grey suit that Finch had remarked on earlier that day was covered with blood.

Finally.

Because John had shot him six times and had figured he was really going downhill, to miss so thoroughly.

He grabbed a bush and used it for leverage as he called out, _“Davis!_ ”

Davis jerked to a stop and looked around. He saw John, or rather, the bush John was hiding behind. He stumbled a few more steps and tried to raise the launcher but dropped to his knees instead.

“Davis,” John yelled again. “You’re not going to make it. If you tell me where the boy is, I’ll take care of you.” Davis’s dark skin was chalky grey with dust and the blood leaving his body. It wouldn’t be long.

“And if I don’t?”

John smiled. “This road sees two, maybe three cars a month. I’ll leave you to bleed out and we both know how much fun that is.”

It was a pointless threat and Davis smiled in return—his teeth were stained red. “There are worse ways to go.”

“And that goes for your son, too? He shouldn’t have to pay that price.”

Davis relaxed, falling sideways to an awkward sitting position.  “‘Price,’” he repeated. “I paid a long time ago. I just want what’s mine.”

“No.” John gripped the bush tighter. “You want to have it both ways and people like us can’t do that.”

“You sound like Stanton.”

 _The hell I_ _do._ “So what’s it going to be? You know your son can’t survive out here on his own.”

Davis nodded. Or maybe he shook his head again—John couldn’t tell because the pain in his shoulder was starting grow, slow and sure like a wave coming closer to the shore, making it hard to focus, blurring his vision.

“What will you do to him?” Davis said.

“I don’t hurt children.”

“That’s not what I meant. Here…” Davis tossed the launcher to the side and held up his arms for a moment, then dropped them again. “I’m unarmed.”

John hesitated. Davis was slumped over, legs straight, palms to the sky. He could make a play for the Walther PPK he had in his ankle holster, but there was no way he’d get there before John.

He pulled his SIG and got to his feet.

He stopped a few yards away. Davis hadn’t moved. “Peter? Where’s your boy?”

“I was just thinking,” Davis said to the ground. “Stanton once told me that you’d be the perfect agent except you could never let go of the past.”

John shifted from foot to foot. His right knee was aching; he must have landed on a rock when he’d tumbled into the ditch.

“I never figured out what she meant, but it’s kind of funny.” Davis finally raised his head, inch by inch, as if his neck was made of rusty iron. His chin was wet with blood, his eyes glassy. “You can’t forget the past. I can’t forget the future.”

John opened his mouth to say, _‘That’s not humor, that’s irony,’_ but with a bloody sigh, Davis crumpled, still sitting up, dead.

John sighed and holstered his weapon. He tapped the earwig. “Finch?”

“This would be so much easier if you would just leave your communication devices on, Mr. Reese. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He crouched next to Davis and reached inside his jacket. There was nothing in the wallet but a bundle of twenties. No map, no coordinates to indicate where the boy was. He stuffed the wallet in his pocket. “You have any luck with Davis’s computer?”

“Of course. He was good, but I’m better.”

The smug satisfaction in Finch’s voice made John smile. “Did you find anything about Peter, Jr.?”

“Not as such, but I managed to track down your friend’s father-in-law. He’d purchased a cabin in the late sixties. It’s about three miles from your current location. I’ve already sent you the coordinates.”

John pulled out his cell, murmuring, “He wasn’t my friend, Harold.”

“I know.”

Finch’s tone made John smile again, for an entirely different reason. “I’ll call when I have news.”

“Take care.”

John nodded then tapped the earwig and pocketed the cell. He limped to Davis’s SUV, still parked at an angle in the middle of the road, engine running. He got in.

With any luck, the kid would be right where he was supposed to be and the ghost of business past would go back to being a ghost.

 

***

 

Luck was with him. When he pulled up in front of the cabin, a small figure burst through the door and leaped down the stairs.

For some reason, John had thought Peter, Jr., would be older, but he was young, maybe five or six. When he got out of the car, the boy skidded to a stop and stared up, eyes wide with suspicion.

“Where’s my dad?”

John smiled reassuringly. Peter was wearing boots and a red plaid jacket over a pair of dark blue pajamas. He looked like a mini lumberjack. “He couldn’t make it, but your mom asked me to pick you up.”

Peter took a step back. “Who are you?”

He smiled again. “My name is John. I used to work with your dad.”

“That’s my dad’s car.”

“Yes, it is. He let me use it.”

The suspicion faded from Peter’s eyes, replaced by something far worse. “He said we were going to spend the week at grandpa’s cabin. He said he was going to teach me how to fish.”

John nodded. Anger burned his throat and he had to make an effort not to let it color his voice. “Yeah, he told me about that. But I bet your mom can take you. She used to come out here when she was your age.”

Peter’s expression lightened and he cocked his head. “She did?”

He had no idea—the pain in his shoulder was bright; he needed to get it cleaned and stitched up and if lying helped, so be it. He held out his hand even though it was a little soon. “She sure did. She told me all about it.”

Still, Peter didn’t move and John took a cautious step forward. “Come on, son. I don’t want you to catch cold out here.”

“Shouldn’t I get my stuff and lock the door?”

“I will. Now, come on…” He opened the back door of the SUV. “Let’s get you in the car. It’s cold.”

After a hesitation, Peter came willingly.

John ignored the shock of pain as he reached for Peter and got him  inside. He ignored the streak of fire as he helped Peter settled into the car seat. “I’m going to close the door so you stay warm, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“Okay.”

The cabin was warm and cozy and he should do a quick recon but there wasn’t time. He hurried from room to room until he found the one that was clearly Peter’s. A small suitcase was sitting at the foot of the bed and he grabbed clothing and toys and stuffed them into the case. Then he left, locking the door behind him.

When he got back to the car, Peter was sitting in the car seat, the belt buckled, hands folded neatly in his lap. “You all set?” John asked.

Peter nodded.

“Then let’s get you back to your mom.” He stowed Peter’s suitcase in the foot well, then got into the car. He got out his cell, sent a quick message to Finch, then put the car in reverse.

 

***

 

“How did it go?”

He gripped the needle harder and took another stitch. “The usual.” Tears, hugs, thank yous. John hadn’t given Alicia Williams the details; he’d just told her that the man she’d thought long dead really _was_ dead and that there’d be no contesting her parental rights. When he left them, standing in the doorway of the brownstone, Peter was asking her something about the cabin and fishing.

“I called Detective Carter.”

“What did she say?”

“She didn’t pick up. So I sent an anonymous tip about a dead man on Sheffield Road. I imagine she’ll call the county sheriff.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course. Where are you now?”

He took the last stitch. “At my place.”

“You’re not returning to the library?”

“Not tonight. I’m a little tired.” Just a half hitch and it was done.

“You’re wounded, aren’t you?”

 _Ah, Harold, you’re getting too good at this._ “I’m fine.”

“I suppose when I see you next you’ll have a new scar? Where will this one be?”

He grinned at the black bruise on his knee and the bullet crease on his hip. “On my left bicep. It’s not a big deal. It could have been worse.” It could have been a hell of a lot worse, considering, well, everything. Peter had one of the best kill records in the company until he’d gone crazy and faked his own death.

Finch sighed. “John.”

He straightened up and dropped the needle and its last bit of black thread into the sink. “All I need is a good night’s sleep, Finch. I’ll be fine.”

“Very well.”

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yes.”

“And I’ll bring breakfast.”

“Fine.”

“‘Night, Finch.”

“Good night, Mr. Reese.”

He tapped the earwig then dug it out of his ear. He stood up and looked at his stitching job in the mirror. Pretty good. In a few days the stitches would be gone and he’d be back to normal.

He frowned.

Normal. There was no _normal_ for him. Only the job, only the numbers, the march that never ended.

Except…

Except that wasn’t quite right. The job tested his creativity and kept him on his toes in a way he’d never experienced. And he was doing good for a change, helping people who needed it, stopping those that needed _that._ And then there was Finch…

He smiled at himself in the mirror, picked up his shirt and left the bathroom.

He threw the bloody shirt into a bag for safe disposal later, then changed into a t-shirt and sweats and crawled under the covers. He closed his eyes.

Davis’ face immediately appeared. Not the Davis of the recent past but the Davis of three years ago—confident and sure, making sly comments as he did the job with a thoroughness John always admired.

If anyone had ever asked him to point out the ones that would break, Davis would have been the last one he’d pick. Well, barring Stanton, of course.

The few times he’d worked with Davis, there’d been no mention of family, of friends. Some shared small, meaningless exchanges but nothing more than that. Davis had been all about the job—on the occasional downtimes, he’d read the local newspapers or listen to the local radio. He said both gave him a better understanding of the cultural climate of the region and might save his ass some day.

What had happened to him? Never mind the fact that he’d gone into hiding, how had he gone from _that_ to this? Was it the job, the never-ending secrecy?

But—John rolled to his good side—it wasn’t any of those things.

It was the boy.

Because children changed everything. They always had and they always would.

He grimaced, forcing away the instantaneous memory of a freezer truck and a crying baby, focusing on the pain in his shoulder, on the fact that he needed a good night’s rest.

But still, he was almost asleep, mind letting go of everything, when he heard it again: _“You can’t forget the past. I can’t forget the future.’_

_***_

Five Weeks Later

He’d just turned off the water when his cell rang. He leaned around the shower curtain to check the display, then tapped the button. “It’s a little early for a number, isn’t it?”

“Mr. Reese, we have a situation.”

His smiled died. “What kind of situation?”

“It’s another number, but it’s best if you see for yourself. Meet me at 1432 Richmond.”

“Why would—” And then he remembered. After all, he’d been to that address a couple times, the last time when he’d done a drive by, just to make sure everything was okay. _“Harold—”_

“It’s okay, John. Everyone is fine. Just get here.”

Finch disconnected, leaving John with nothing but a dial tone. He grabbed a towel and dried off as he hurried through the loft. He dressed, cataloging his gear, what weapons he might need, using the recitation to calm the panic.

When he was done, overcoat on, he went to the closet and began to pack. He had everything stowed and ready to go when he hesitated. He picked up a long, heavy bag. It might be overkill, bringing the Barrett, but it was always best to be prepared.

Choices made, he slung the bags over his shoulder and left, hoping Finch was telling the truth.

 

***

 

The ride to Queens wasn’t a nightmare because he only paid surface attention to _red light stop, green light go._ He was busy ignoring the litany of self-recriminations: _If anything happened to her… I should have killed them all… I should never have done the deal with Elias…_

When he turned onto Richmond, he surveyed the street. The neighborhood was as it should be, this early in the morning. Most of the windows were still dark and there were no emergency vehicles or patrol cars anywhere in sight. He parked in front of the brownstone, pulled his SIG, then climbed out and hurried down the steps.

The door opened before he could knock or ring. It was Finch, standing there with an all-too familiar expression. “Are you okay?” he asked because Finch didn’t say anything.

Finch tried to smile. “I’m fine, of course. Come in. But put that…” He nodded to the gun. “…away first.” He stepped back, moving more stiffly than normal.

John hesitated. If they were alone, he’d take Finch’s arm and get the truth out of him; but the room beyond was brightly lit so he just nodded and edged by.

Sammy and Veda Cruz were waiting for them in the living room, sitting on the sofa, hands clasped as if unable to let go of each other.

He nodded, taking in the house, the fact that nothing seemed out of place. “Are you okay?”

Like Finch, Veda tried to smile. “That is what Mr. Finch asked. Yes, we are fine. I am sorry we had to call you, but we weren’t sure what to do.”

John waved her excuses away. “No. We said to call if anything happened. So…” He turned to Finch. “What happened?”

Finch cleared his throat. “An attempted break-in.”

“Was anything taken or damaged?” Code for, _‘Where is she?’_ and, _‘Is she okay?’_

Finch gave him a knowing look. “She’s fine.”

“Good.”

He’d kept his voice at it’s most even, but Finch raised an eyebrow and murmured, “She’s upstairs if you want to make sure.”

John nodded and was out the door and up the stairs before they could say anything more.

Thanks to the security system he and Finch had installed before they’d moved the Cruzes in, he knew the house like the back of this hand and he made a beeline for the second room on the right.

He pushed the door open.

And smiled.

She’d grown, was his first thought. Standing in her crib, a stuffed lion in one hand, her eyes already fixed on him as if she’d known he was coming.

“Hi, Leila,” he murmured. “Remember me?”

It had been over seven months since he’d seen her so there was no possible way she’d remember. But she grinned and waved the lion as if saying, _‘Yes.’_

He didn’t let go of the doorknob. He and Finch really need to get back to the library to figure out how to fix this.

But Leila waved the lion again, this time crowing as well and he couldn’t stand it. Two long steps and he had her, picking her up to hold her high because he knew that would make her laugh. And when, on cue, she gurgled a smile, he hugged her close because he couldn’t stand not to do _that_ , either.

She smelled sweet, like baby powder and shampoo and lotion. Her hair had gotten longer and had darkened to a brownish blond but she felt the same—warm and tiny and perfect.

“She’s grown, hasn’t she?”

He started but didn’t turn. “Babies will do that, Finch.”

“Hm.” Finch came to stand beside him. He reached up and Leila dropped the lion in favor of his finger. “She’s still got a good grip.”

“That’s because she’s a scrapper. Maybe she’ll be a boxer.”

Finch raised an eyebrow. “Over my dead body. She’ll want to _use_ her brain, not destroy it.” He leaned closer and smiled. “Is that right, sweetheart? Are you going to MIT like Uncle Harold?”

Uncle Harold.

John didn’t smirk because it was sweet and he remembered how it had been when he’d first seen Finch with Leila. Completely unexpected, completely disarming.

“What happened?” he asked. It was time to get down to business, no matter how much he didn’t want to hear.

Finch nodded and began a dry accounting. “Mr. Cruz woke up the other night because he heard a noise. He checked the security monitor but it showed everything normal. He went back to bed. The next afternoon when he was coming home from work, he found that the front door deadbolt had scratch marks on it. He thought nothing of it.”

“And?” Leila grabbed John’s lapel and tugged. She really _did_ have a good grip.

“And the same thing happened last night, only this time it was the back door. Around three a.m. someone tried to break in. Mr. Cruz scared them off and notified me immediately after.”

“Did they call the police?”

“No.” Finch glanced up at him, a quick, blank look. “I asked him to wait.”

Leila tugged his lapel again and then bent her head to chew on the dull point of wool. “How does he know it wasn’t a normal attempted burglary?” He rubbed Leila’s back, running his thumb up her fragile spine.

“He doesn’t. It was I that found out that the circuits on the security system had been thoroughly rerouted. I doubt your everyday hoodlum knows how to do _that._ ”

“Hm.”

They’d hand-built the security system and it was sophisticated. It would take more than a street thug to get through the electrical web they’d created.

“Here…” He handed Leila to Finch. “I want to look at something.”

While Finch murmured to Leila, John went to the window and examined the frame. The alarm hadn’t been touched and there were no scuffmarks on the sill. He peered through the glass—the sky was a soft grey, the street still empty.

“Well?” Finch said.

He turned. Leila somehow had gotten Finch’s glasses off and was sucking on an earpiece. He couldn’t help a smile. “The window is secure.”

Finch sighed. “That’s good. Let’s go back down.”

“You go ahead. I want to do a quick sweep.”

Finch nodded and gently placed Leila back in the crib, then left, saying over his shoulder, “Don’t be long.”

 

***

 

While Leila watched, John methodically searched the room. He examined the windows again, the furniture and fixtures; he even checked the crib and felt along the seams of the wallpaper. Nothing.

Which wasn’t necessarily a good thing and he told Leila to “Be good,” and followed Finch.

When he got downstairs, the scene had changed. Veda was pouring a cup of tea for Finch and Sammy was standing by the fireplace, frowning, arms crossed.

“Is everything okay?” John asked, mostly to Finch.

“It’s fine. Mr. Cruz was telling me he might have been followed on his way to the grocers the other day.”

“I didn’t remember it until just now,” Sammy said, his frown deepening. “We get a lot of visitors in this neighborhood. I assumed the man was lost.”

Finch shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault, Mr. Cruz.”

“Did you get a look at him?” John asked.

Sammy shrugged. “Anglo, maybe forty or fifty. He was wearing a black cap so I couldn’t see the color of his hair.”

Veda picked up her tea and immediately sat it back down. “Do you think it’s the same people from before?” she asked Finch. “I thought you said that woman, the wife, was in jail.”

Finch nodded. “She _is_ in jail, Mrs. Cruz, and you can be assured that she’s staying there. But…” He trailed off and looked up at John.

“But we need to get you out of here, just to be safe,” John finished for him. “How long will it take you to pack?”

Finch twisted around to look up at him as Veda stood up and hurried towards the door. “I started packing the minute Sammy told me that someone tried to break in.”

“I’ll get Leila,” Sammy said, following his wife.

“John,” Finch murmured. “What are we doing?”

“Do you know the first rule when you’re being hunted, Finch?”

Finch hesitated. “Get to safety?”

“Bingo.”

Finch nodded. “I have just the place.”

 

***

 

Their safeplace turned out to be a hotel on 77th. John chauffeured Sammy, Veda and Leila while Finch followed in his car. When they pulled up to the curb, John told Sammy and Veda to go in, then tapped the earwig. “You sure about this place, Finch?”

“The security is top notch. I’ve stayed here, on occasion. Besides, I own it. Or rather, Mr. Siskin does.”

John smiled, relieved. “You go on in. I’m going to wait to see if we have a tail.”

“Very good. Room three-fourteen.”

He drove around the block, then chose a good location and parked. He waited twenty minutes, seeing nothing but disinterested passersby as the city woke up. Finally, he got out, glanced around, and hurried across the street to the hotel.

Like before, when he got to room three-fourteen, Finch opened the door before he could knock. He gave John a puzzling speaking glance, then gestured to come in.

Sammy was sitting on the sofa, hands clasped while Veda holding the baby. When Leila saw him, she waved her arms excitedly. He smiled but made no move towards her. “So?” he said.

“We were just discussing our next move,” Finch said slowly. “Mr. Cruz is worried that whoever tried to break in might harass his family.”

“It is my sister,” Sammy said. “The rest of my family is still in Guatemala and Veda’s family is in Florida. But my sister is here.”

He glanced at Finch. Guatemala was probably out of the goon’s reach, but Florida? That was a two-hour flight down the coast and if anyone was _that_ determined…? “Where does your sister live?”

“In Queens.”

“Call her, but don’t tell her where you are. Mr. Bennett and I will look into your would-be burglar.”

Finch shot him a quick look of surprise and John wanted to smile. Of course he remembered Finch’s aliases—it’s what he did.

“Maybe we should call the police,” Veda said. “If someone is after Leila again, maybe they can help.”

“No,” Finch spoke up. “Please don’t do that Mrs. Cruz. I’ve worked these cases before and it’s possible that someone connected with Mrs. Petrosian is behind it and we don’t know who that person is or where they work. Please give us time.”

Veda glanced at her husband; they both nodded reluctantly.

Finch stood up. “I’ve booked the room next door. I’ve asked a friend for help and he’s already there and will watch over you while my associate and I return to my office and assess the situation. We won’t be gone long. I will inform him of the situation.”

Finch left and Leila made a sound, half cry, half gurgle. Veda cuddled her close, gazing at John with an unreadable expression.

When they were in the corridor, heading for the elevators, John murmured, “ _‘Friend?’_ ”

“Well, I hardly think a mild-mannered government employee could afford a bodyguard, now could he?”

John just nodded.

 

***

 

They said nothing on the way to the library, nothing as they strode through the empty first floor and then up the stairs. It was only when Finch was taking off his coat that John broke the silence. He helped Finch with his coat, murmuring, “What is the plan?” He hung the coat up, then took off his own.

Finch sat down in front of his computer and logged on. “Frankly, I haven’t been thinking clearly since I got the call from Mr. Cruz.” He began to type, his fingers darting across the keys.

“Are you hungry?” John asked. He wasn’t, but Finch got crabby when he didn’t eat.

Finch nodded. “Yes, but later.”

He grabbed a chair and rolled it close to Finch. “Are you starting with Nicola Petrosian?”

“Yes. I’ll see if she’s had any interesting conversations while in prison. Maybe she found out what happened to Leila and is making another move.” Finch stopped typing. “John?”

“Yes?”

Finch turned to him. “What if it’s Elias?”

John cocked his head, thinking about it. “I doubt he’s behind this. He used Leila as leverage to get the location of his father. There’d be no reason he’d go for her again. He’s not sloppy and he doesn’t let emotion rule his actions.”

“But what if he’s trying to draw you out.”

“There are easier ways to do that than hunting down a baby.”

“Such as?”

John shrugged. “You.”

Finch shifted in his chair and it was too dim to see, but John thought he might be flushing.

“I see.”

He throttled the grin and waved his hand. “Of course, he could easily use Fusco or Carter.”

Finch’s surprise faded and he turned back to the computer. “Thanks a lot.”

He smiled and stood up. “I’m going to make some coffee. And before you ask, yes, I’ll make you some tea.”

 

***

 

Normally, it took them some time to follow the fine threads that connected their victims. Normally, he had to go through hell before he found the bad guy.

This time, though, it was a piece of cake and Finch had the answer by the time he returned, carrying the coffee and tea.

“I’ve got it,” Finch said without looking up from the screen.

He sat the tea down and took a sip of coffee. He sighed at the heat and taste. “That was fast.”

“Yes, it was.”

“It’s Nicola?”

“Hm-mm. She’s been a busy girl.”

He bent to look over Finch’s shoulder. The monitor screen was filled with layers of open windows, the top-most was a video feed from Bayview Woman’s Correctional Facility. “Let me guess, you hacked in months ago.”

“I’ve been following that woman ever since she was arraigned. Unfortunately,” Finch added, “I’d grown lax. See?” He pointed to the video. “On February twenty-third she contacted her grandfather.”

“Let me guess again—she doesn’t have a grandfather?”

“Oh, she has a grandfather. He’s ninety-one and very ill with Alzheimer’s. He’s in a home in Tirana and from what I can tell, hasn’t left the facility in two years.”

John sat down again, close enough that he could feel the heat from Finch’s body. “How did you hack into a system all the way over in Albania?”

“I have my ways.”

He smiled and sipped the coffee again. “What about the rest of her family?”

“I’ve only found a few. They’re spread out all over the place. The ones that matter are in Tirana and here—” Finch tapped a few keys and another window popped up. “The prison recently installed a VoIP network. The firewall, of course, is pathetic. I was able to trace the calls she made. The first one was to Tirana. Now…” Finch’s voice quickened as it always did when he was on the digital hunt. “I don’t know who she talked to, but she immediately called one Enver Juric who lives in Connecticut.”

Finch brought up an FBI file photo and John leaned closer to the screen. Juric was nondescript in that hard-eyed criminal way—square jaw, scraped back hair and an expensive looking suit. “Who Enver Juric?”

“A mid- to upper-level criminal with ties to an Albanian drug cartel. And—according to various American intelligence agencies—a very bad man. He’s been on their radar for several years.”

“For what?”

“Smuggling, trafficking in both drugs and people, murder. Every time a state or county has a case against him or his men, they manage to slip through their fingers.”

“He’s got a judge in his pocket.”

“I’d say several. And probably a few DAs. In any case, the week after Nicola got in touch, Juric made call after call to a burned phone after which he went to visit Mrs. Petrosian in prison. Watch.”

Finch pulled up a video feed of the Bayview visitor room. It looked like all visitor rooms, but even more depressing thanks to the grainy picture. Juric came in wearing a visitor’s badge; he sat down at a booth and after a brief moment, from the other side of the screen, came Nicola Petrosian. Even though the camera angle was acute, John could see she’d changed—she’d lost weight and her hair was much shorter.

She sat down and picked up the phone. The conversation was brief and when they were done, she pressed her fingers to her lips, then touched the glass. Juric smiled in return, got up and left.

“We don’t have audio, but it’s clear they know each other just as it’s clear whatever Juric said made Nicola very happy.”

“Finch,” John murmured happily. “I could kiss you.”

“Later, Mr. Reese.”

He grinned briefly. “Any ideas how she found out where we’d stashed Leila?”

Finch leaned back in the chair, his arm brushing John’s. “My best guess is that she or Juric hired a private investigator and they found Sammy’s sister. It wouldn’t be impossible to find the Cruzes through that connection, even though we asked them to cut all ties to their former lives.”

John nodded. To disappear completely one needed leave everything—and everyone—behind. An impossibility for most people and this was the result. “Let’s forget that for now and concentrate on our next steps.”

“Yes, the next steps.”

And there they stopped, neither speaking. John didn’t know what Finch thought, but he was all for hunting down Nicola’s extended family and convincing them that any further actions against the Cruzes would make him very, very unhappy.

He pictured the methods he’d use, absently murmuring, “The way I see it, we’ve got four options.”

“And those are?”

“One, hope that Nicola Petrosian won’t try again.”

Finch shook his head. “She’s not the type. She’s got anger issues.”

John raised his eyebrow and Finch explained, “In 2001, she was arrested in a road rage incident. She was cut off by a woman in a mini-van; she ran the woman off the road, then tried to drag her from the car.”

“Okay, she’s a psycho and won’t stop.” He held up two fingers with a smile because Finch was going to love the next one. “Two, call the authorities.”

Finch turned his chair, saying caustically, “Leila’s adoption wasn’t legal, Mr. Reese. They’ll take her from the Cruzes and put her in a foster home. It will take months, maybe even years, for the system to work and she’ll be vulnerable the entire time. We might as well give her to Juric ourselves.”

“I didn’t say that’s what we should do, Finch,” he responded mildly. “I just said it was an option.”

Finch shook his head. “One that we won’t chose. I suppose your next suggestion is to get them out of the country.”

He stood up and began to pace. “Yes.”

“That’s not any better. If Juric knows where the Cruzes live, he knows what they look like. All he’d have to do would watch the airports and bus stations. And, if his reach is as deep as it sounds, he could simply pay someone off in any of the major ports of entry.” Finch made an angry gesture. “Besides, not only would _Leila_ be in danger, but so would Mr. and Mrs. Cruz.”

“All right. Number four, my personal favorite. We set a trap at the house and wait Juric out. He’s bound to try again if he thinks we’re unaware of his attempts.”

“That could take weeks. And who’s to say they’d try that location again? The Cruzes can’t stay cooped up in the house that long—they make one run to the bodega around the corner and that would be it.”

“Okay, Finch,” he said, keeping frustration from his voice, “what do you suggest?”

Finch hesitated, then shook his head. “I don’t know. We could move them across the city or to another state, but I’m afraid we’ll be in the same situation in a month’s or year’s time.”

John stopped his pacing and leaned against a file cabinet. “I suppose you won’t let me kill Juric.” He cocked his head and added wistfully, “I could make it look like a rival gang hit. Maybe the Russian mob?”

Finch gave him a searching look. “Are you joking?”

He smiled sweetly. “You should know me by now to know the answer to that question.”

Finch shook his head sharply. “Then absolutely not. That could quite possibly start a gang war and if Juric’s men aren’t killed as well, they’d _still_ come after Leila.”

Good point. “Then I’m all out of ideas. What do you suggest?”

Finch stilled, then looked down at his keyboard. He absently touched a key. “I suppose we could try option four.”

“Set them up? Okay.” John pushed away from the bookshelf. “I’m on it.”

 

***

 

It was a shame—he thought later when he actually had time to think—that  he wasn’t able to go through with his plan; he always enjoyed a good set up. But when they returned to the hotel, they found that events—and Enver Juric—had taken the matter out of their hands.

“Finch.” He stopped in the middle of the corridor, barred Finch from moving forward, then pulled his weapon. Light streamed from the open hotel door and there was a body a few feet beyond. “Stay here.”

He didn’t wait for an answer but inched along the wall to the door. The man, whoever he was, was dead, a bullet hole in his temple. The door was a mess—someone had kicked it in, breaking off the security latch and part of the doorjamb. He peered inside.

The sitting room was empty but there were signs of a struggle—a chair was tipped over and a vase was on the floor, flowers scattered about. He slid in and had only taken two steps in when he heard a cry and a loud crash from the bedroom. He lunged for the door and yanked it open.

He took it all in a second: Veda Cruz in the far corner of the room, holding a crying Leila; Sammy Cruz kneeling on top of another man; Frack struggling with a third goon.

The fight was mostly over—Sammy was making good work of tying his guy up, but Frack was having trouble.

He was wrapped around his guy, using a standard chokehold, but the man was big and beefy and had a neck like a bull. John was tempted to stand by and watch because he’d always wanted to see Frack in action, but Finch would never forgive him. So he stepped forward and put his gun to the goon’s head.

In an instant, the man stilled. Frack gave John a dark look and a silent, _‘Where the hell were you?’_ and then let go. The man dropped to his knees.

“Tie him up,” John murmured to Frack and then he said without turning around, “Veda? Get her out of here.”

He waited until they were gone and then knelt next to the man. He handed his gun to Frack and examined the goon. No tattoos, no identifiers of any kind. He cocked his head. “If I ask nice, will you tell me who sent you?”

The man snarled.

He tried again, whispering in Croatian so there were no misunderstandings. _“Tko vas je poslao?”_

The man spat on the carpet and John looked up at Frack and smiled. “Well, I tried.” Then he slugged the man, a swift punch to his temple. The man dropped without a sound.

 

***

 

By the time he and Frack got the third man tied up, the hotel security staff arrived. He let Frack do the talking and went out into the corridor. Finch and the Cruzes were huddled around Leila, waiting. John shot Finch a look that said, _‘Now what?’_ and, _‘You better have some pull here or we’re gonna be in trouble.’_

Finch just frowned and then without a word, he guided his small flock down the hall, away from the crime scene.

 

***

 

Finch, apparently, had some pull. They weren’t stopped from leaving the hotel and they were soon back in the car and heading south    .

They ended up in front of a four-story building surrounded by six-foot bushes and a tall, wrought iron fence. The gate opened smoothly when the town car approached, and closed again when they were through, just as smooth.

John glanced over at Finch. If they’d been alone, he’d say something like, _‘Don’t tell me—this is yours, right?’_

Finch glanced at him as if he’d spoken and by the small gleam in his eye the answer was, _‘Yes.’_

 

***

 

The house was beautiful. Mid-century and full of sleek, modern furniture, lots of glass and space, more museum than home. Finch led them to an upstairs living area and told them to make themselves at home. John wandered to the ceiling-to-floor windows and looked out over the park. Finch joined him.

“How many homes do you own, Harold?” he murmured. He should be angry that Finch had kept yet another safe house from him, but it was so _Finch,_ that he was only irritated.

“Enough that when we leave here, I can sell it with no remorse.”

He nodded. He knew the minute he stepped out of the elevator that Finch would figuratively burn this place behind them in an effort to keep Leila safe.

“So,” he whispered as he turned to where the Cruzes where standing on the far side of the room, looking incredibly scared and lost. “What do we do now?”

“I have an idea,” Finch muttered. “You’re not going to like it.”

 

***

 

“No!” he said for the third—or maybe it was the fourth time?—he’d lost count. “Finch, you’re crazy. Look what happened last time.”

“Last time, we were taken by surprise. This time we’ll be prepared. We’ll lay out a process and follow it to the letter.”

“Finch, it’s not a ‘process.’ It’s a two-year old girl.”

“Fourteen months. She’s only fourteen months.”

He got up out and started to pace in front of the massive fireplace. The bedroom Finch had led him to when the discussion got heated was another huge room, about as big as his entire apartment. “You were the one that said it wasn’t working, remember?”

“I remember,” Finch said quietly. “And can you keep it down? They’re just across the hall.”

John took a deep breath and went to sit next to Finch on the sofa. He tried again, making his voice calm, reasonable. “You said it wasn’t working and we took her back to the people who could care for her. Her _family._ ”

“But that’s just it.” Finch made a sharp gesture. “They _can’t_ care for her. They’re not prepared for this. They’re in danger too, John. If they live with us, at least they’ll be safe.”

“I know.” He laid his hand on Finch’s. “But what happens if I was taken out or you were? They’d be all alone and at greater risk than ever. And what about the machine? How will you hide that?”

Finch stared at him for a long time. Then he nodded. “You’re right, of course.”

John tightened his grip. “Harold—”

Finch rose, out of John’s reach. “It’s fine. You should get some sleep. It’s been a long day. I want to do a little research.”

Finch’s voice was at its most dispassionate and something inside John said, _‘Uh-oh.’_ He got to his feet and nodded. “Don’t stay up all night.”

 

***

 

It was maybe an hour later when he felt the mattress dip. He smiled, and turned over. The bedside lamp was on and Finch was sitting up, reading. John reached out and touched his arm and closed his eyes.

He didn’t sleep, though. He just fell into a light doze, and that was a good thing, as it turned out, because it wasn’t another five weeks or even five days until the next attack—it was  an hour later.

 

***

 

“John?”

Someone shook his arm.

_“John!”_

He sat up and rubbed his eyes. “What is it?” Finch was holding his open laptop and wearing the black silk robe, the one John had bought him the month before. He was also wearing that look he got when a situation went south, wide-eyed and scared. “Harold?”

“Three men just climbed over the fence.”

It took him a second to understand, and then he was up in a flash. “I thought this place was secure, Finch.” He hurried to his holster and got his gun. “Where are they?”

“They’re trying to hack the rear entrance security system.”

He led the way, padding across the bedroom and through the sitting room. “They’re creatures of habit, aren’t they. Not a good thing when you’re a bad guy.”

“Be that as it may,” Finch whispered in a hurried rush, “what should I do?”

“Lock out the elevator.”

“I’ve already done that.”

He peered into the hallway—it was empty. “Get Henry. Tell him to wake the Cruzes.”

“He’s with them now. He won’t leave them.” Finch took a breath, then said, “Oh…”

He stopped and looked back. “What is it?”

“Nothing. That’s the first time you’ve used Henry’s name.”

He smiled. “See you soon, Harold.”

 

***

 

By the time he made his way to the back door, the bad guys were gone. They’d broken a pane of glass, but hadn’t been able to get through the iron bars that covered every window. So where to next? If he were the one breaking in, he’d skip the basement and go for the second or third floor windows. No one ever expected hitmen to be athletic.

He ran up the stairs, and sure enough, as he got to the third floor, he heard the soft, brittle sound of glass shattering. He followed the noise, down the dark corridor to a room at the very end.

The door was open a crack and he held his breath and took a quick look. The drapes were drawn back, making it easy to see the two figures that were helping a third through the window. So, all present and accounted for.

John had a number of choices at this point, but he was tired of this game, tired of _them_. He took aim, then shot them all, first the guy on the left, then the middle, then the right. _Bam, bam, bam,_ and they were down, clutching their knees in pain.

He gathered up their weapons, taking his time, looking for distinctive marks. The first one had a tattoo of a seven-headed dog on the side of his neck with an inscription that read, _‘Brotherhood,’_ in Croatian. No point in interrogating them—he knew who had sent them.

He said a silent apology to Finch, then ripped out the cords on two lamps and tied the men up. When he was done, he looked up. Finch was standing in the hall, just out of reach from the room’s faint light.

He got up and went to meet Finch.

“I saw everything,” Finch said, nodding to the dazed men and the security camera high in the ceiling. “What will you do with them?”

“I don’t know, but one thing is clear, Nicola Petrosian needs a lesson in acceptance.”

Finch shook his head sharply, dismissing John’s words. “But how did they find us? For that matter, how did they find us at the hotel? I was sure we hadn’t been followed.”

John stilled. He’d been so busy with the fallout of the break-ins that he’d missed that one essential conclusion. “Get Henry up here. I need to check something out. Come on.”

He didn’t wait for Finch’s questions or objections; he strode down the hall and then down the stairs. He hadn’t brought all his equipment, just the essentials. Which meant he had nothing that could read any sort of electronic signature but hopefully that wouldn’t matter. Hopefully, a visual inspection would work.

When he knocked on the Cruzes’ room, he got an immediate reply. “Come in.”

He pushed the door open. Sammy was pacing by the window, Veda was sitting on the loveseat.

Sammy stopped pacing when he saw John. “It has happened again, hasn’t it?”

John nodded. “It has.”

Sammy took a deep breath and let it out, somehow deflating. He dropped down next to Veda. “How do they know we moved?”

He ignored that. “Have you taken Leila to the doctor lately? Has she been sick?” There was a soft sound behind him and he didn’t need to turn to know that Finch had joined them.

Sammy shook his head. “She has been well. She had a cold for a few days, but that was all.”

Veda put her hand on Sammy’s arm. “Wait—remember when she first came to us?” She turned to John. “When she first came to us, she had to go to the doctor. We got a call from the home, the place that Claudia had given her to. They said the baby needed her six-month check-up.”

“Did you take her yourself?” John asked. “Where was the clinic?”

“We took her. I don’t remember where the clinic was. I have the papers, back at home.” Veda smiled tiredly. “She was very good and hardly cried at all, even though she had to get several shots. One bled so much, we had to bandage her leg for two days.”

Damnit. God _damnit._

“Why does this matter?” Sammy asked. “Did they do something to her?”

He smiled in an effort to keep the fury from his voice. “Let’s hope not. I need to see her.”

“What’s wrong?” Finch said.

John shot him a dark look but just said, “Come on.”

Veda led them to a connecting room where Leila slept in the middle of a big bed, surrounded by pillows.

“I can’t believe she slept through that gun fire,” Finch murmured as he leaned over the bed.

John didn’t answer. He didn’t want to do this, but he had to. He sat on the bed and moved the pillows out of the way, then gently pulled Leila to him.

She woke up with a soft questioning sound and he murmured, “It’s okay, honey, I just need to check something out. Finch? Can you get the light?”

Finch turned on the lamp and then held it closer as John unbuttoned Leila’s pajamas. She made no sound as he examined her arms and chest and back. When he got to her baby-fat thighs, she kicked and laughed and he smiled even though he felt as if someone had sucker-punched him. Because he’d found it immediately. A hard lump, about a quarter of an inch long, imbedded in the subcutaneous fat on the back of her right thigh. He ran his finger along its length, just to be sure.

“Good God,” Finch breathed over his shoulder. “Is that a—?”

John nodded, using the small motion to still the rage. “They chipped her.”

“With what?” Finch asked as Veda reached around and touched the lump, murmuring, “What _is_ that?”

“They wanted to track her, so they implanted a device in her thigh. I don’t know if it’s RFID or a dozen other technologies—it could be any of them.”

“They put something in her?” Sammy asked from the other side of the bed.

John nodded and Finch muttered, “Those bastards.”

Finch had never sounded so cold, so angry, and John looked over his shoulder. “Nicola must have been desperate to try something like this.”

“Desperate?” Finch mocked harshly. “I’d say so. Her husband just filed for divorce. When she gets out of prison in ten years, she’ll have nothing. This must be her final volley at the person that she blames for ruining her life.”

John covered Leila up. He glanced at Veda and then Sammy—they both looked at the end of their rope, but what needed to be done next couldn’t be put off. “We need to get this out.”

Finch touched his shoulder. “Can you do it?”

“No.” He could, of course, if there was no other way. But the idea of cutting into Leila’s flesh made his stomach turn. “But we know someone who can.”

Finch took a breath, “Who—?” Then he sighed and nodded. “Good idea.”

John nodded.

“And what about _them_?” Finch gestured to the ceiling.

“Oh, don’t worry.” John grinned. “I’ll take care of that, too.”

 

***

 

He got dressed and with the help of Frack, piled the wannabe assassins into the trunk of Finch’s second-best town car.

He had a rough idea where Elias lived but it really didn’t matter—anywhere in his territory would do. He drove to Surf Avenue and stopped outside a likely bar. The place was packed and there was music blaring from the open door. He dumped the guys in the middle of the street and then honked the horn an obnoxiously long time.

He waited until a crowd of thugs rushed out, then drove away. As he was turning the corner on Center, he saw one of the assassins kick one of the thugs. The thug returned the kick and the unequal melee was on.

He smirked and sped up.

 

***

 

Meg Tilman—now that she was no longer being stalked by a crazy rich guy—had a new routine. Instead of working sixteen-hour shifts, she worked thirteen. When John made it to his perch across from her building, she was in her kitchen, making a cup of tea. He got out his cell, then murmured, “Thank you, Harold,” Finch had sent Tilman’s new number and email address. Always thinking one step ahead, was Finch.

He dialed and even though it was almost one in the morning, she answered on the first ring. “Hello?”

He adjusted the binoculars. “Dr. Tilman?”

She sat the cup of tea down. “Yes. Who is this?”

“A friend. Who helped you out last year with a little problem you were having with a certain investment banker. Remember?”

There was nothing for a moment and then she crossed her arm over her breasts in a classic defensive move. “Yes, I remember.”

The fear in her voice and posture was nothing he’d expected or wanted. “Meg, you don’t need to be afraid of me or him. I told you, all that’s done with. But, I do need your help if you’re willing.”

If it had been anyone else there would have been instant hemming and hawing and an eventual, _‘Sorry, can’t help you.’_ But Meg had guts and after another pause, she nodded once and said, “What can I do?”

 

***

 

“And you don’t know who implanted it?”

He took the last corner to Finch’s house. “No. My guess is the Croatian mob. For what it’s worth, whoever it was, they did a good job—she’s in no pain.”

“Still, to do that to a baby…” Meg shook her head.

He nodded. His own anger had dwindled, but he knew when it was over and Leila was finally safe, he’d have to work it all out in some way. Maybe he’d go to the gym and punch it out. Maybe he’d go find Elias.

He turned into the drive and the gates opened.

Meg peered out of the window and looked up at the house. “Is this your  place?”

“No. It belongs to a friend.”

“Your friend must be rich.”

He pulled into the five-car garage and turned off the engine. “He does all right for himself.”

 

***

 

The Cruzes were waiting in their bedroom with Leila and Frack. Finch was nowhere to be seen. Whether that was due to discretion or simple habit, John didn’t know. But it was just as well—he wanted this done with and the less questions Meg had, the better.

“Is that the patient?” Meg nodded to the baby.

“Yes.”

Meg glanced at Frack and then the Cruzes, then back at John. Her gaze was full of curiosity, but all she said was, “Right. Where can I wash up?”

 

***

 

It was nothing, really. A simple incision into the meaty part of Leila’s thigh. All he had to do was gently hold her to the dining room table where they’d set up a temporary surgery. But still, by the time Meg had finished and was bandaging the shallow cut, John thought he might throw up. Or lose it in a really big way. “Do we need to worry about infection?”

Meg shook her head. “It’s doubtful. Babies generally have great immune systems. If the device were compromised, you’d know it by now. Don’t give her a bath for a few days and make sure to change the bandage.”

“Okay.”

“She means a lot to you, doesn’t she?” Meg murmured, smoothing the edges of the bandage.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you’re sweating.”

He looked up. “Maybe I’m afraid of blood?”

She actually snorted. “You? I don’t think so.”

He looked back down at Leila. She was almost asleep and was sucking on her little fist. “Yes,” he said, because really, why bother to lie? “She means a lot to me.”

Meg nodded and handed him the device cradled in a nest of gauze.

He held it to the light. It was silver, shaped like a very thin capsule and was similar to the trackers he’d used in the past. He’d examine it under a magnifying glass, but he could see no mark which meant it would be near impossible to trace. The irony wasn’t lost on him and he smiled briefly.

Meg nodded to the device. “I shouldn’t ask any questions about that, should I?”

“It would be safer if you didn’t.”

She nodded again and then her expression lightened as she leaned over Leila again. She took over her gloves, saying softly, “You were _so_ good, weren’t you?” And then she straightened and held her gloves out to John with a raised eyebrow.

He smiled. Clever girl, knowing he’d ask for them. He took them and murmured, “C’mon. Let’s get you home.”

 

***

 

He’d just dropped Meg off when his earwig buzzed. He tapped it and murmured, “How is she?”

“Fine. She decided she was hungry, didn’t she?”

He smiled at Finch’s tone—he was clearly talking to Leila. “And Sammy and Veda?”

“Exhausted. I convinced them to let me take care of Leila while they get some sleep.”

“Did you have any luck with finding the maker?”

“Not yet. I’ll do a more thorough search in the morning.”

He peered up at the sky. “It’s already morning.”

“You know what I mean.” Finch sighed loud enough for John to hear, then said, “You’re going to Connecticut, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “It will be a nice day for a drive.” A lie—it was supposed to snow again.

“I’ve been doing more digging.”

“About Juric?”

“Yes. He’s unmarried, no children, and in recent years, spends most of  his time at his house.” Finch hesitated, then added, “What will you do to him?”

“What do you think?”

There was a pause, then Finch said quietly, “I’m not going to try to talk you out of it.”

“Good.” _Because you can’t._

“Just—”

But Finch didn’t finish and after a moment, John said, “I’ll be careful.”

“We will, too.”

“I’ll call when it’s done.”

“And I’ll call if I find out any information about the device that you can use.”

“Good. See you soon.” He tapped the phone before Finch could answer.

He glanced at the grey sky again. He probably should have rested first. Or at least stop for coffee. But the anger that he’d thought banked was growing again; when he got this way, there was no point resting, no point waiting—he needed to resolve the situation and he needed to do it now.

So he turned on the radio and set it to the station that always reminded him of Zoe and gave the Lincoln some gas.

 

***

 

Juric’s house, if possible, was more ostentatious than the Petrosians’. It was a grey stone monstrosity that sat on at least fifteen acres of rolling hills.

It had the usual security—a tall iron and stone fence that encircled the property, monitors and strategically placed lights. Shame that Juric hadn’t invested as much in his security system as he so obviously had on the house—it was embarrassingly easy to bypass the cameras and alarms—John had the gate open in under three minutes.

He drove slowly up the drive, scanning the area for muscle or dogs, but there was no one about. He parked under a leafless oak and got out. The place was completely silent and he had a moment of pause, worried that he’d jumped the gun and Juric was still in the city. But no—as he made his way around the house, he saw a light coming from one of the rooms on the first floor. Someone was an early riser.

He didn’t spend much time choosing his entry point. He found a courtyard filled with covered furniture and strode up to a French door. He broke a pane of glass, reached in and opened the door.

There was still no alarm which was careless to say the least and as he made his way across a dark living room he wondered why Juric was so sloppy. Maybe Juric was just overconfident or maybe he was—

“Who are you?”

Or maybe Juric was just behind him.

He turned. Standing in the doorway, limned by a hall light stood a dark figure. The man’s arms weren’t raised, but he was holding a gun, hidden in the folds of his robe. “Enver Juric?”

The man didn’t nod, but he glanced quickly to the side; bingo. “I’ll ask you again, who are you?”

Juric’s accent was faint but there. “A friend of Leila Cruz.”

Juric cocked his head. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”

John smiled. “You know exactly who she is, just as I’m sure you know who I am.”

Juric hesitated before saying, “Where are my men?”

“Busy.”

“Are they dead?”

 _Yes._ “Hopefully.”

Juric finally raised the gun and pointed it at John. “It was stupid of you, breaking in like this. American laws are so convenient. I could shoot you right now and the local sheriff would only shrug.”

The sun was almost up and the room was getting brighter. The Juric standing before him was much older than his file photo. He’d  put on a few pounds and his mouth was bracketed by wrinkles. “So why don’t you?”

Still Juric hesitated and John heard the soft sounds he’d been waiting for—footsteps on the patio and then on the carpet. He didn’t look around. “They can’t help you.” He waited again, this time for Juric to tell him from what side the men were approaching.

Juric’s eyes twitched again—a very small movement but it was enough.

John shifted his weight. “I could ask you to leave her alone. I could even threaten. But men like you only know one type of communication.” Almost time—just another few feet.

“And what type is that?” Juric mocked, eyes narrowing.

John smiled and as he prepared to move, he answered, “This.”

 

***

 

It wasn’t hard but it was messy. By the time he was done taking out Juric’s crew, he was cut up and bruised. He washed up in Juric’s kitchen, then went back to the room where the bad guys were trussed up.

He stood there a long time, looking at the unconscious men.

He was trying to change—he’d said that to himself more than a few times, had even said it to a number of murderers and crooks. But he couldn’t take the chance that Juric would come after Leila again. Whatever he did, it would have to be permanent.

He had a number of options: trash the house and make it look like a robbery gone bad; rearrange the bodies to make it look like Juric’s crew had gotten tired of taking orders and decided on a coup.

But there was the possibility of DNA evidence never mind what would Finch say, when he said he’d taken care of them the easy way. He’d give John that look and say nothing. But it would be there, a fragile wall between them, ready to thicken the moment something else happened that Finch didn’t approve of. And John had grown tired of those walls some time ago.

So in the end, he did it the Finch way. In the end he used fire—that all purpose cleanser—to do the trick.

 

***

 

It was noon by the time he returned to the city. He waited until he was past East 96th before tapping his earwig. “Finch?”

“Finally. How did it go?”

“Fine.”

“And Juric?”

“Probably trussed up on his lawn, waiting for the authorities.”

“I hope he gets the message.”

“He’ll have time to think about that while he’s in jail.” He rolled down the window, wanting some fresh air even though the day was cold. “I hope we’re not making a mistake. Are you sure the charges will stick this time?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Detective Szymanski is already on route to liaison with the FBI and the Connecticut Organized Crime Division. Plus…” Finch paused. “I added a little extra insurance.”

“Such as?”

“I leaked a few documents to the right people, indicating that Juric has been working with the federal government. If he tries to hire another thug to come after the Cruzes while he’s in prison, he’ll find he’s very alone. If he even makes it through the arraignment.”

John thought of Juric living in that huge house with only goons for company and didn’t say, _‘He already_ was _alone.’_ “I take it the ‘right people’ is Zoe?”

“It is.”

“What about Nicola?”

“Her phone and visitor privileges were rescinded right after she received a message from her cousin telling her that Leila was delivered yesterday.”

“It won’t stop her if she finds out the message was fake.”

“Yes, but it will take years for her to find out the truth, if she even bothers. Time, and a good therapist, might do the trick.”

“Maybe.”

There was a moment of silence as he thought about that, about change and forgiveness and then Finch said, “When are you coming home?”

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Good, because we have another situation.”

He sighed. “Harold—”

“No, not that kind of situation. We had a number, but thanks to your lessons of the past, I’ve already taken care of it. Just meet me at the safe house.”

 

***

 

When he drove through the gate, he was surprised to find a taxi idling in the drive and blocking his way to the garage. He’d expected Sammy and Veda to return home, but not this soon. He tapped his horn and waited as the driver backed up and made room for him. He pulled into the garage and had just gotten out when the door to the house opened up.

“Mr. Reese.”

“Harold.”

Finch didn’t say anything, but he waved, _‘Come.’_

Tired, but curious, John followed Finch through the dark kitchen and hall and into the living room.

Sammy and Veda were waiting for them, only this time, Sammy was sitting on the sofa and Veda was pacing back and forth before the cold fireplace. Sammy’s expression was like stone, but Veda’s face and eyes were red and damp—she’d been crying, for what looked like a long time.

“What’s wrong?”

Finch started to speak, but Veda gestured and said, “This is wrong. This whole—” She smothered whatever she was going to say, then turned and faced John. “We can’t do this anymore.”

John shot a quick look Finch’s way. “You mean Juric? He’s taken care of.”

“No,” she answered sharply. “It is not just him. We cannot— We are not—” She broke off and sat in the chair, dropping like she had no more strength. “We can’t take care of her.”

“It’s finished,” John answered slowly. “Nicola Petrosian can’t hurt her anymore.”

Veda raised her head, her eyes stark but keen. “Are you sure?” She leaned forward. “Are you positive?”

John opened his mouth, and then closed it again. No, he wasn’t positive. There were no sure things in life and Juric could take it into his head to do something stupid, as could Nicola.

Veda nodded as if he’d spoken. “Yes. That women will try again and what happens when Leila gets older. She’ll be in school. She’ll have friends. We can’t keep her locked up forever, always looking over our shoulders for the next time.”

“You can take her home with you. Back to Guatemala.”

She shook her head again. “We cannot. We left there for a reason. It’s impossible. Besides,” she added with a tired shrug, “there are more opportunities for Leila here. What kind of life would that be for her if even we didn’t want it?”

“At least she’d be alive.” He was half serious, half facetious and Veda gave him another sharp-eyed look.

“We _can’t._ ”

John glanced at Finch. His expression was impassive, even bland—John had no idea what he was thinking. But he could guess. “Did you put them up to this?”

Finch frowned and muttered harshly, “Of course not, Mr. Reese. I’ve been counseling reason and—”

Sammy spoke for the first time. “It is not about reason Mr. Bennett. It is about love. We love her.” His voice broke and leaned over to take Veda’s hand. “We love her so much, but we can’t keep her safe.” He looked up. “This will be hard, but how much harder would it be if she  comes to harm because we miss something like we missed that chip. If she was kidnapped or hurt again? We have no experience in this kind of thing. We would not survive it if—” His voice broke again and he shook his head abruptly.

“So what do you propose?” John said after a moment.

Veda hesitated, then whispered, “We want you to take her.”

He gave a surprised laugh even though he’d known what was coming. “No.”

“We have seen with our own eyes how much you love her. You will keep her safe.”

He was already shaking his head. “We can move you. Maybe out of the state. Hire security and—.”

“Mr. Reese—” Sammy said quietly.

“No one will find you and we can—”

“Mr. Reese—”

“–make sure—”

 _“Mr. Reese!”_ Sammy said harshly. “Nothing you can say will change our minds. It is about Leila now. What we want does not matter.”

He took a deep breath then let it out. “Bennett?”

Finch glanced at him. “I think we’re all exhausted. I think making a decision right now would be a mistake.”

Sammy stood up. “Then we are going home. At least for a little while.”

“And Leila?” Finch asked.

“She has been moved enough,” Veda answered resolutely. She rose slowly, as if she’d aged twenty years in the space of ten minutes. “Let her stay here.”

Finch cleared his throat. “Aren’t you worried that they’ll try again at your house?”

“No.” She shrugged fatalistically. “And if they do, at least we won’t have to worry about the baby.” She nodded to Sammy and picked up her purse. “One thing…” She wrapped her purse strap around her hand, pulling it tight enough to make the flesh whiten. “We would like to say goodbye now. In case…” She shrugged again, this time helplessly.

Finch nodded and gestured towards the door. “Of course. And maybe it won’t be goodbye. Maybe in the morning you’ll reconsider.”

“It is already morning,” Sammy muttered and John cracked an unexpected smile.

He didn’t go up with them, but sat down in front of the fireplace. He stared at the stone, thinking that he’d get up and turn on the gas because it would be nice, the heat from the fire, but he was too tired.

He fell asleep that way, slumped in the chair, still wearing his overcoat.

 

***

 

“John?”

He stirred and fell back asleep.

Finch tugged on his arm. “You can’t stay there. Come upstairs.”

He kept his eyes closed. “I’m fine, Harold.”

“Okay. Don’t blame me if you get a pinched nerve.”

He sighed and opened his eyes. Finch was without vest and jacket and—John squinted—he had a smear of something red on his collar. “That better not be lipstick. What time is it?”

“It’s not and it’s almost two.”

“Are they gone?”

“Yes.”

“Did they take Leila?”

Finch pressed his lips together in that way he did when he was especially irritated. “Of course not. Weren’t you listening to them at all?”

John pushed to his feet. “Harold—”

“Don’t say it. I know what you think.”

He shook his head. “Even I don’t know what I think.”

“Then get cleaned up. I’ll have Henry pick up lunch. Is Thai okay?”

He wanted to argue because Finch was hiding something, but wasn’t sure where to start, wasn’t sure he wanted to _know_. “It’s fine.”

“I brought a change of clothing for you,” Finch called out as John walked away. “It’s in the bedroom.”

He just nodded.

 

***

 

He showered and shaved, then examined the bruises and cuts—they were all minor and nothing that wouldn’t heal easily.

Finch had brought him two suits and his workout gear. He was too tired to put in a run or an hour in the gym, but he chose the sweats and t-shirt just the same.

He was walking down the hall, heading for the stairs, when he heard a soft sound from the room on the right. He padded to the door and peered in.

Finch was getting Leila dressed, tugging a sweater over her head while she tried to grab his glasses. He was ducking and laughing and she was laughing right back. The sight, the happiness on Finch’s face, made something in John’s chest hurt and he leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms.

“Are you all right?” Finch asked without looking around.

He smiled. “I told you—I’m fine.”

“Then…” Finch lifted Leila up. “Take her and let’s go down.”

He pushed away from the doorway and took Leila. She came to him easily, with the same smile.

“Hey,” he said, leaning back. “Is that a tooth?”

“It is. She’s been drooling which is a sign she’s teething.”

“Great.”

Finch gave him a look, but didn’t say anything.

They walked downstairs together and then—not into the ridiculously large dining room—but to the kitchen. It was bigger than most of the apartments John had lived in, but it was still cozy with its line of white cupboards and wooden floor.

“I see you went shopping,” he said, nodding to the highchair at one end of the table.

“I gave Henry a list.”

He nodded, but didn’t say anything about the new food processor, still in its box, or the pyramid of baby food. He carefully lowered Leila into the highchair and asked her, “There. All comfy?”

She smiled up at him and pounded the tray.

“Someone’s hungry,” Finch murmured. He was examining the food, peering at the jars one by one. “Peas and carrots, maybe? Or the perennial favorite, chicken and prunes?”

“Harold—”

Finch held up his hand. “Not now, John. Let’s just eat.”

“Okay. Later.”

 

***

 

They ate in silence, mostly. Finch and Leila talked—if you could call it that—but to each other. John ate and watched and tried not to be charmed by Leila’s charm. It was hard going—she was a happy baby and laughed or smiled each time Finch said something or made a face. 

And then there was Finch—John was used to his moods by now, had even categorized and alphabetized them, but he was taken aback by Finch’s carefree smiles and the way he laughed when Leila laughed. It was disconcerting.

“Do you think she misses them?” It was a question he hadn’t meant to ask and he kicked himself as the delight faded from Finch’s expression.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Babies form attachments fairly early.”

“And that doesn’t worry you? That you want to break another one of her ties?”

“Of course it does, Mr. Reese,” Finch said sharply. “And do I need to remind you that it wasn’t _I_ who decided on abandoning this baby?”

“No,” John murmured, quoting his own words from months ago. “You’re just the one that stole her.”

Finch stood up. “If we’re going to do this, let’s put Leila down first.”

“Okay.”

Finch washed Leila’s face gently and John picked her up. They went upstairs, using the elevator this time.

Along with the baby food and high chair, Finch had also bought clothes, a crib and an assortment of toys. The clothing was arranged in neat stacks on the dresser along with diapers and other baby things. John rubbed the crib railing while Finch put Leila on the bed. “Don’t you think you’re overdoing it?”

Finch picked up a towel and shook it out. “We can’t be sure Juric didn’t plant a bug somewhere else.”

“Juric is in jail.”

“I’m not worried about Juric, per se.”

Ah—so the new gear was just Finch’s normal paranoia. “I could have done a sweep.”

“Yes, well, I wanted to be sure.” Finch placed Leila on the towel and then removed her clothes. She waved her arms and legs and gurgled up at him. “You like that, don’t you? Clothes aren’t any fun, are they? Can you get me a pull-up?”

It took John a moment to realize that Finch was talking to him and another moment to figure out what a pull-up was. He handed it over, then went back to his place by the crib. “She doesn’t wear diapers anymore?”

“No.” Finch shook his head at Leila. “She’s a big girl, aren’t you?”

She smiled as if agreeing with him.

John didn’t move, watching as Finch neatly changed Leila’s bandage and then diaper, refusing to let the scene get to him. Refusing what seemed to be a natural inclination—the urge to sit on the bed so he could be closer to Finch and the baby.

Finch looked over his shoulder. “Can you get me that onesie? The purple one?”

He couldn’t help a smile. “What’s a onesie?”

“See?” Finch leaned over the bed and pointed to the first  stack of clothes. “Those are _onesies_ and they go under her pajamas.”

He found the purple one and gave it to Finch. ‘Onesie’ apparently referred to the fact that the outfit was a single unit, like long underwear. “Onesie,” he murmured.

“Hm-mm,” Finch answered. “And now for her pajamas.”

John took a shot, choosing the second stack and a purple piece of clothing that had purple monkeys on it. He handed it to Finch and Finch smiled.

“Thank you. And now…” Finch quickly pulled the pajamas on and then straightened up. “If you’ll get her, we’ll put her down for her nap.”

He reached around Finch and picked Leila up. She smiled, barely. “She’s tired.”

“She should be. She’s had a long week.”

He carried Leila to the crib and placed her gently down in the nest of blankets.

“Make sure she’s on her back,” Finch breathed, leaning next to him. “It’s safer that way.”

“Why?”

“It just is. I’ll show you the data.”

He adjusted her until she was flat on her back. She looked up at him for a moment, then shut her eyes. “Do babies always fall asleep this easily?”

“Oh, no,” Finch retorted softly, covering her with a white blanket. “There will be tantrums and crying fits—this is just luck.”

John sighed and shook his head. “Harold—”

Like before, Finch interrupted him. “Don’t. Not here.”

He nodded. They may as well be comfortable—and out of earshot of Leila—while they argued.

 

***

 

He rubbed his forehead, saying for what felt like the hundredth time, “It won’t work.” His throat was sore from all the talking and arguing. “It won’t.”

Finch paced in front of the fire, as he’d been doing for the last half hour. He’d taken off his jacket, tie and vest and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows in a way that was decidedly unFinchlike. “I toldyou. I’ve several cont—”

“Contingencies in place, yes, I know,” John mocked ruthlessly, trying to get Finch to see reason. “You want to hire Henry’s ninja sister as a nanny. You’ve set up a foolproof background for Leila. You’ve got some land in the country where you’ll build a compound—” He shook his head. “Harold, it just won’t work.”

“It’s the only solution. Sammy and Veda can’t take care of her. The state will just put her in a home or hand her off to some stranger. Is that what you want?”

“What I want,” he muttered, mostly to himself, “is to go back to how it was. I want it to be normal. Whatever that is.”

Finch paused, mid-stride, and turned.

 _“‘Normal,’_ ” he repeated harshly. He sat down next to John and repeated, “Normal,” this time as if just hearing the word for the first time. He sighed and took off his glasses. “You asked me something, not too long ago, about a conventional life? Do you remember? ”

John did because how could he forget _that_ particular job, but he lied anyway. “No.”

“We’d just received a new number—Mr. Powell. You were watching him and you asked me, _‘Do you ever crave a more conventional life?’_ ”

“What did you say?”

“That I’d thought about it. Before, I mean.”

“And?”

“And,” Finch looked down at his hands. “It was a lie. Or part of one. Because sometimes, I’ve felt like a kid looking in a shop window. I’d see people living their lives and I’d wonder, _what if_ …?” He shook his head, his voice growing softer. “But it didn’t last long, the wondering. I happily lived my life by my own choices. No one held a gun to my head.”

“What about Grace?” It was a topic he rarely brought up, for more than a few reasons.

Finch slanted him a piercing look. “I’ll never regret my time with Grace, but I think, looking back, I knew it wouldn’t last. And–” Finch broke off and removed his glasses.

“And?”

Finch cleaned his lenses on his handkerchief, slowly, as if needing a moment to think. “And, I’ve realized, these last few months, that I’ve been wondering again. What it would be like to have a home and someone I care about nearby.” He cleared his throat and put his glasses back on. “These last few months have shown me that it’s possible to lead not a normal life, but a life not so alone.” He looked up at his gaze was blunt, direct. “ _You’ve_ shown me that it’s possible.”

John didn’t say anything—he couldn’t.

“And so when I got the call from Sammy and Veda and realized how overwhelmed they were, how _scared_ they were, it felt as if it were fate. John…” Finch leaned close. “Do you realize the odds of me creating something like the machine? Of having it _work?_ And then, of me _finding_ you and convincing you to work with me? They’re astronomically slim.”

“Don’t tell me you believe in fate.”

“I didn’t use to. Now I’m not so sure.”

He stared at Finch. Because, yes, he’d felt it at times—that odd sense that he and Finch were meant to find each other, that it hadn’t been luck or even design that he’d ended up in the same city as Finch, on that specific train that would eventually lead to a trip to a police station…

Still, that was no reason to bring a baby into it.

“And what happens when we’re both hurt on the job or maybe killed? What happens if the library is compromised? Because all of those things could happen; you know they could.”

Finch sighed. “I _told_ you. Leila won’t live at the library. She’ll stay with me. And Karen is experienced _and_ on retainer. The machine will notify her immediately if anything happens to either Leila or us.”

“And what about the times when we’re just plain busy? Don’t tell me you’ll have time for Leila’s school plays and teacher conferences.”

“I have time for those things now, Mr. Reese,” Finch said with a little sniff, as if John had just insulted him deeply. “And even though I had offered Sammy and Veda a monthly stipend, they both refused to quit their jobs. How much time do you suppose _they_ had earmarked for Leila?”

He hadn’t thought about that. “But what about—”

“John?” Finch interrupted him. “All day long I’ve been answering your questions. Now it’s time for one of mine.”

He settled back into the sofa and crossed his legs. “Shoot.”

“I know this isn’t ideal. I know this will change things dramatically. But other than Leila coming to harm, what are your objections?”

He smiled. “That’s a pretty big objection all by itself.” Finch didn’t smile and John shrugged, this time saying seriously, “My next objection? I can’t do what I do if I’m always worried about consequences.”

Finch nodded, as if expecting the question. “So when you’re in the middle of a fight, what are you thinking about, other than winning?”

“Nothing.”

Finch leaned forward and touched John’s knee. “And that’s the way it will _stay_ , John. Your survival instincts are the one thing I’m counting on. Don’t you _see_? In this unpredictable life we lead, you’re the most predictable thing I know and if Nicola sends someone else, I want you to be there for Leila. It’s about her _future._ ”

The words were a trigger and he remembered Davis, bleeding out in the frozen mud, muttering sadly, _‘You can’t forget the past. I can’t forget the future.’_

He’d never much considered the future, not after Jessica had died, after his own employer had tried to murder him. He’d lived day to day, swallowed up by the past and his inability to change it, waiting for the time when his life could just _end._ And then Finch had shown up with his bizarre proposal and things had changed again.

Maybe he’d been wrong and Davis was right—maybe the past wasn’t as important as the future. Maybe the future was worth the price he’d have to pay.

He looked over. Finch was watching him steadily. “Harold?”

“Yes?”

“If I were to say yes, we’d have to establish some additional ground rules.”

“Such as?”

“Number one, we tell Carter and Fusco.”

Finch frowned. “Are you sure? They’d want to hand her to the state.”

“No, they won’t. And Carter would be first in line to protect her, if something happened.”

“What else?”

“When Leila gets old enough, I want to teach her hand-to-hand combat.”

As expected, Finch stiffened up. “Do you really think that’s necessary?”

“If she’s to live with us, it is.”

“Very well. Anything else?”

His next requirement would be a harder sell, but it had to be done. “I know you don’t like weapons, but I’ll want her to at least know how to disarm someone.”

Finch wanted to argue, John could see it, but he just nodded again. “I expect you to keep all firearms and knives out of her reach at all times, but yes, your condition is acceptable. Is that it?”

There was a hell of a lot more, but those would do for now. So he just nodded. “Yes.”

They stared at each other for a long time. And then Finch took a deep breath and sat up straight. “Well.”

“Well,” John repeated because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Finch nodded and pushed to his feet. “I’m going to check on Leila.”

“I’ll be up in a minute. I want to do a walk-through.”

“Good idea.” Finch nodded again, almost hesitantly, then turned to the door.

John watched him walk away, more than a little dazed. He felt oddly not himself, like the day he’d shot his first man, thinking, _‘Did I just do that? Did that just happen?’_

But, yes, he’d just done that and yes, that had just happened. And now he had to live with it and roll with the punches.

With a sigh that wasn’t quite unhappy, he went to check the doors and windows.

 

***

 

Leila slept through dinner and he and Finch ate in front of the fire, another  take-out meal. They didn’t say much. He didn’t know about Finch, but he was waiting for Sammy and Veda to call, asking to have Leila back. They didn’t and when dinner was over, Finch asked him if he needed a place to clean his gun.

Surprised, John said yes and they finished up the evening in a small study off the living room. John took care of his SIG while Finch typed away at his computer and it was nice. It was more than nice and as the minutes ticked away, he found himself watching Finch. Watching the way he occasionally hummed to himself as if something he was reading pleased him. Or the way he sometimes twisted his mouth, as if something else had _dis_ pleased him. Gestures so familiar it seemed like John had always known them and that was nice, too.

At ten, Finch closed his laptop and said he was going to check on Leila.

Like before, John watched him walk away, only this time not in a daze.

He checked in with Henry and then did his rounds, forcing concentration. After he made sure everything was secure, he went upstairs.

As expected, he found Finch in Leila’s room, changing her diaper. “How is she?”

“Come see.”

John stepped close to look over Finch’s shoulder.

Leila’s eyes were partially clothed, her face flushed with sleep. She looked like a picture from a baby food ad and he felt it again, that pang somewhere deep in his chest.

“She looks happy,” he murmured.

“She’s very good-natured.”

John nodded and without being asked, reached for a pull-up. “Here.” 

Finch took it. “Thanks.”

“Do you need any help?”

“Not now. We’ll work out a schedule tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Finch’s hands and forearms were finely muscled from all the computer work and John had to stop himself from stroking the flexor that ran from his elbow to his wrist.

Finch turned stiffly and glanced at him. “Are you all right?”

He was less than a foot away from Finch, bending over him as he had that first time, months ago now. And funny enough, the proximity was just as sexy now as it was back then. He smiled.

Finch blinked and said, “Oh.” And then he blinked again, adding another soft, entirely different, “Oh.”

John stepped back. “Everything’s locked up. I’m going to bed.”

“I’ll be there shortly.”

He nodded and didn’t smile when Finch swallowed hard.

 

***

 

‘Shortly’ ended up being an hour and by the time Finch came in and closed the door, John was in bed.

He tossed his book on the nightstand. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine.” Finch went to the dresser and began to unbutton his shirt. “She got a little fussy so I fed her.”

“Will that throw her schedule off?”

Finch paused at the second button. “I don’t know. I’ll do some research tomorrow.”

“You do that.”

Finch glanced at him in the mirror. “Are you laughing at me?”

John raised his eyebrow. “Not in the slightest.”

Finch humphed and gave up on the buttons and pulled the dresser drawer open.

John relaxed back into the pillows and sighed. “I like this bed. It’s comfortable.”

“Don’t get too used to it. We’ll probably leave tomorrow.” Finch got out his pajamas and laid them on the dresser.

“Why? The security system is fine. It’s two blocks from the library and my place.”

Finch frowned and turned around. “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about staying here.”

“Other than the place is like a museum, why shouldn’t we stay here?”

Finch absently picked up his pajamas and moved towards the bed. “The furniture is not a problem. I can easily baby-proof the house. But…” He touched the sleek black footboard and murmured, “What about you? Are you ready for this? Living here with me?”

John smiled. “Of course I’m not. I told you that this afternoon.”

Finch straightened up as if affronted. “Back to that, are we?”

“Hey…” John patted the comforter. “Come here.” He waited a moment, then added, “Don’t make me come get you, Harold.”

Finch raised his eyebrow, but a smile lurked in his eyes. “As if you would.”

John patted the comforter again.

Finch sighed and came around the bed and sat down. “We didn’t discuss that part, did we?”

“No.”

“What do you think?”

“What do _you_ think?”

Finch sighed again. “Don’t tease.”

“Sorry,” he said because it was only fair. He _had_ been teasing, mostly because Finch was so teasable. “And, no, I’m not ready but that’s because I hadn’t thought _we_ were ready.”

“And now?”

“And now…” He took Finch’s hand. “And now I’m remembering that I spend most of my time with you. That the library might as well be my home. That—” He looked down at his hand, wrapped around Finch’s, and the words, _‘That you’re my family,’_ got stuck in his throat.

“You won’t need to give up your apartment,” Finch said. “Just as I won’t give up mine.”

“Knowing our track record, we’ll probably need them when this place gets burned.”

Finch turned his hand so he was holding John’s, palm to palm. “Probably.”

They stared at each other, another odd moment like before, sharp and clean, as if the world had stopped turning and he was left in a kind of frozen freefall.

“Harold?” he said softly, using the sound of his own voice as an anchor.

“Yes?” Finch answered, just as soft.

“Those pajamas are going to come right off. Why don’t you leave them in the drawer for once.”

Finch looked down at the bundle of black silk in his hands and stated, “I hardly think—”

But John was done talking. He leaned forward and shut Finch up with his mouth.

Finch moaned and when John shifted to get a better angle, Finch  was there with him, pressing close, making the world spin again.

“John,” Finch murmured.

He wrapped his arm around Finch’s waist and reeled him in, sliding a leg around Finch’s hips, the comforter and sheet the only things separating them. “Yes, Harold?”

“I’ve installed a monitoring system. If she needs us while we’re—”  Finch tried again. “You know, while we’re—”

Finch sputtered to a halt and John said pleasantly, “Don’t worry. I’ll hear her. You know how good I am at multi-tasking.”

Finch made some comment, probably a rebuke at John’s humor, but John was focusing on the job at hand and wasn’t listening.

Because in the past few months, what with one thing and another, there hadn’t been much time for sex. They averaged maybe twice a week and John had always told himself that was okay. But like frequency, the intensity had somehow muted, too. He’d never lived with anyone longer than a few weeks and he figured that’s just the way it was—something all couples dealt with.

But now, it was different. Maybe it was the release he always got from a successful conclusion to a mission. Maybe it was because they were in a different bed and that was always interesting.

But no.

It was none of those things. It was the change in their lives, the big one, the addition of the little girl asleep down the hall.

Finch drew back, just slightly. “What is it?”

John shook his head. There was no way to explain what he was feeling.

But like always, Finch read his thoughts with ease. “It’s different, isn’t it? With Leila here?”

Instead of answering, he carefully rolled until Finch was on top and then pulled the covers up. “Why is that, do you think?”

Finch paused, and then said, “Because it changes the dynamic. We’re now three instead of two and because of that, we see each other in a different light.”

John cocked his head. “We do?”

“We do.”

“And that’s a good thing?”

Finch smiled and leaned down to kiss him. “That’s a very good thing.”

 

***

 

They made love, a slow exploration and examination that felt familiar and new, both at the same time. Until they got to the good part, a breath away from coming, arms and legs tangled together, and he was back in freefall, unable to tell where he ended and Finch began. He made some sound, a grunt or growl, and Finch bit his neck with his own small moan.

And that did it, the sound of Finch letting go. He came with a hiss, head tipped back, jaw clenched, taking care not to hurt Harold.

 

 

 

Coda

 

 

He jerked awake, half out of bed before he realized what had woken him up. He fell back to the mattress with a sigh and closed his eyes again, listening for more bangs. Sure enough, a few seconds later, he heard them and then the muffled sound of something hitting the bedroom door. He smiled, eyes still closed, and waited for the door to open and the soft sound of feet padding across the oak floor.

“See?” Finch whispered. “He’s right there. Just as I told you.”

There was a soft coo and then a loud, _“Da!”_

He grinned and opened his eyes. Finch was standing next to the bed, already dressed, holding a squirming Leila. She was carrying her drum and beaming down at him.

“Good morning,” he said to them both and held out his arms.

She squirmed again and Finch lowered her.

He cradled her close and murmured into her hair, “You’re in a good mood this morning. Did you have breakfast?”

Finch sat on the bed. “She did, indeed.” He rested his hand on John’s leg, stroking his knee through the comforter. “She had eggs and a piece of soft toast.”

Leila began to pound the drum again. “That sounds good.”

“Your breakfast is ready if you feel like getting up anytime soon.”

He guided Leila’s hand, helping her hit the center of the calfskin. “Did Carter call?”

“Yes, about an hour ago. We were right. Pierce and Boyle _did_ know each other—they’re brothers.”

John looked up. “Brothers?”

“Hm-mm.”

“That explains a lot.”

“Yes, it does.”

“I wonder which will give up the other first?”

“Does it matter?”

He shrugged because, no, it didn’t. A family feud carried on privately was one thing. A family feud that involved HR and a lot of illegal weapons was completely different. He was glad it was over. “What’s the new number?”

“I was just looking into it when this one…” Finch curled a lock of Leila’s hair around his finger. “…interrupted me. Have I thanked you, by the way, for baby-proofing this floor?”

“Not in the last week.”

“Well, thank you.”

John smiled. Leila was walking now, and it was work, keeping up with her.  Her favorite thing these days was waking him up by banging on the door with the drumstick. Sammy and Veda had been surprised, during their last visit, to see her so active. “Why don’t you go check out the new number. I’ll stay here and teach her how to do a drum solo.”

Finch groaned. “Please don’t. Why you ever bought her that set, I’ll never know.”

Leila gave him the stick and he tapped it slowly. Her eyes lit up and he grinned. “You said it yourself, Harold—children who are exposed to music early on in life do better in school.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of the piano or flute.”

“That will come. Just give her time.”

There was no response and John glanced up. Finch was watching them with that look, the one he wore whenever they were alone. As if they existed in a bubble, just the three of them.

And then he straightened up and adjusted his glasses. “Well,” he said. “I’ll go take a look at what the machine has given us today.”

“Sounds good.”

“If I need you, I’ll use the intercom.”

“Okay.”

“It might be a difficult one. The computer trace was still running when I realized she’d made a break for it.” He touched Leila’s hair again.

“That’s okay,” John said, leaning over Leila to brush his cheek against Finch’s. “Give me ten minutes and—”

Leila interrupted him with a squeal of laughter and an unerring aim as she lunged and grabbed Finch’s purple tie.

They smiled down at her at the same time, and John finished with a smile, “…and I’ll be ready.”

 

  

 _fin._  

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote most of this back in March (2012) and the only addition from current events has been Grace. However, since I'm in love with Bear, I really wanted to add him as well, but didn't have the time. I guess the Leila Meets Bear fic will have to wait. Also, this story isn't part of a series, but I consider it a prequel to "Number Four Hundred Thirty-Seven."


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